


Adrenaline

by Elfy (elfowlgirl)



Category: Thrilling Intent (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6794944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfowlgirl/pseuds/Elfy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They surround him. Somehow, he is not afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline

It's strange, he thinks, being on the other end of an ambush.

Not that he's really been part of many ambushes before.

Four of them surround him, tall and leering as they weigh the weapons in their grasps. The dying sunlight glints off their masks, expressions unchanging and yet staring him down. They're all the more human-like of the ban, and as his gaze crosses theirs, he picks out one of the two fox-masks as  _ actually  _ human. The other three - fox, crow, chameleon - are definitely spirits. He can feel it as he looks at them, almost taste the peculiarity on his tongue. If it had a taste, it would be bitter.

He wants to plead with them, to remind them; they were siblings, once, weren't they? Xin's loose talk of "brothers” and "sisters” he doesn't quite mean, their veins all running with the same otherworldly radiance - however thin, however imagined. Together in the Onorhian Wilds, together in exile. Together in fear.

Somehow, though, he knows that it's not meant to be. If you're not with them, you're against them - a mantra to live by, as unspoken as it is. He's unarmed and uncertain, training and instinct rushing through his mind as if they'll be of any help in what will no doubt be a fight to the death.

So he takes a deep breath, tossing his blond ponytail over one shoulder before leaping forward, both hands pressing hard into the wet dirt and grass. He throws himself onward and kicks out, slamming the heels of his sandals hard into the center of the human-fox's chest.

It won't take much to put the human down, he decides. He flips back, just small enough to land briefly on the face of the chameleon as they - barely - follow his movement with their gaze. Kicking back off, he rolls to beside the fox on the ground as the chameleon topples from the unexpected and fleeting passenger.

The fox's hatchet lays in the grass beside them. He wraps one hand around its handle, taking a moment to test its weight as the crow moves to help the chameleon up and the other fox eyes him down.

With a hefty tug, he pulls the hatchet from the ground, then slams its sharp, steel head into the human-fox's throat. The human convulses wildly before lying still, a thin trickle of blood beginning to pool beneath them.

He wrenches it out of the human's throat with the same hand, using a sudden swing of momentum to send it right at the second fox. The blade twirls once before it embeds itself in the fox's chest and they hit the ground, eerily silent as they grasp at the wound in obvious pain. It’s strange, the lack of sound and shouts of surprise from his masked foes, but he’s almost certain he likes it.

And, all at once, he has to pause. Each of his movements, careful and calculated, spontaneous and deadly, seemed to have happened in but an instant. Only then does he notice that his breath is quick and heavy, his heart beating faster than it ever had before, as though a fire had been lit in his heart. As though it now enveloped him, and that the fire  _ was  _ him.

Speed rushes through his veins and soon he's nothing but adrenaline. The fury of the hatchet, the weight of the blow, the redness of the blood seems to sing to him, a sweet song that whistles through the air like the wind - twice as hard and just as warm. It seems to follow him, to carry him. It sings a song of blades. Of death.

If he's ever lived before, he didn't know it. This was life. This was life and so, so much more.

And then he attempts a simple trick, one he's long since mastered. The shadows surround him, envelop him, consume him. Just as quickly he  _ is  _ the shadows, trailing through the underbrush and circling the survivors like a hungry shark in an open ocean. He only sign of him is sound, and he doesn’t give a damn if they hear him.

They keep back to back, both on guard, both uncertain. He can see it in the way they hold their weapons, the way they seem to almost be leaning on each other for support. The slightest shaking in their legs, glances between each other and the woods. Can  _ smell  _ their fear.

He could run, now. Hell, he could've run to begin with.

But he doesn't.

He is suddenly beside them, sweeping one leg into theirs and toppling them both over. The fox falls on top of the crow, still clutching tightly at the strange, curved weapons they each hold in one hand. They’re both stunned. The fox, momentarily, attempts to move.

He kicks the fox in the side. They simply let go of the blade as they curl up on themselves, and he retrieves the blade, grinning. A strange grin. A foreboding grin. A delighted one.

Easy as can be, the blade goes through the throat of the fox and between the shoulder blades of the crow. The matching weapon in the crow's grasp falls softly to the ground and he collects it, too, marveling at their weight in his hands. Daggers, but not quite. Better. He slings them along his belt, satisfied, and looks across the glade.

Death. Four ban, all once brethren, lay in pools of their own blood. The grass dyes a thick, murky red, the air heavy with the scent of it, the forest strangely silent and the wind almost still. No bird calls, no scampering squirrels, no rustling of leaves. Just death.

It's only then that he realizes he is shaking. His new weapons clack lightly against his belt, teeth almost chattering as the rush of the adrenaline begins to fade. The human fox's head tilts, some, and for a moment there's the briefest belief glancing through his head that they're still alive -

No, it's just the mask falling to the grass. He strides over and picks it up, turns it over, inspects and, somehow, admires it. No different than the ones he used to know, though there's something about it...  _ calling  _ him to them. Proof of the kill.  _ Trophies _ .

He slides it onto his belt. He could wait for the other masks, too, or, he decides as he removes one of the curved weapons, he could make this easier.

There's one thing, he thinks, that he agrees with Xin on. Humans are so weak - to think they couldn't handle something as  _ simple  _ as a couple ban in the woods.

Zalvetta hums a song as he collects his new masks. A simple song, of blades and of death.


End file.
